Christmas Ghosts
by the-she-celt
Summary: My Secret Santa fic for Syblime; smut, fluff, and the Bransons in the Roaring Twenties!


Tom was going to put the memories of his second wedding anniversary into a special place in his memory and pull them out as evidence to contradict anyone who accused Martha Levinson of lacking romantic bones in his hearing ever again. After being forced into a very formfitting suit and tie, having his hair brutally combed and slicked in a way that it hadn't been since his First Communion at the age of eight, and then being abandoned at the mercy of a piece of paper, he was quite ready to admit that Sybil's enigmatic grandmother had spared neither expense nor effort in her quest for the perfect romantic evening.

Whether or not she had succeeded was a question for his toes, soaked and numb after tramping across a fairground filled with the snow of a December in New York in once-shiny dress shoes. Squinting down at the map she had scribbled for him, he quickened his step across yet another snow-covered flowerbed and plunged into the crowd surrounding the light-bedecked bandstand with all of its dark-skinned inhabitants—yet another odd sight, yet another thing he would never have seen in Downton. Despite the snap of the icy December air, the bare skin of arms, faces, necks, and breastbones flashed amidst the softly falling snowflakes. Women resplendent in loose, low-cut dresses, high-heeled shoes, and perfumed bobs draped their arms around the necks of men clothed in tightly-fitted suits and starched white shirts; richly-colored angels descending to embrace their own dark devils. Cigarettes burnt themselves into oblivion and their corpses were discarded for more slender white stalks, cocktails of electric colors in delicate glass cages, honey-dark bourbon in crystal containers. The air reeled with the scents of rich perfume, spicy hair pomade, cloudy white smoke. Mouths scarlet with paint chattered and laughed, eyes smudged dark flickered and flashed. The very essence of the crowd was alive, buzzing and humming and throbbing with life.

Picking his way around the footpaths-turned-dance-floors, eyeing the skirts swinging to yet another ragtime beat and the rich crooning of the coffee-skinned crooner, he found a quiet corner by the table laden with abandoned glasses and leaned back against the vibrating banister of the bandstand, arms folded, and waited. Staring out into the chattering, laughing crowd, he waited for his own angel to fall back to him.

"_She calls the shots, huh?" _

He smirked at the memory of Martha's inquiry, so many months ago in the calm of Downton's dining room, when the announcement of a soon-to-be-expected Crawley heir had sparked Martha's curiosity about first Matthew's and Mary's married life, then that of the Bransons. Of course, the whole story had to be told by both of them, much to their shared delight; for the first time, the entire family heard of the first time he had proposed to her, heard of her doubts, her fear, his promise to wait for her, their stubbornness…for the first time, he hoped, the reasons for their devotion to each other became clear to her family. She had lived in fear for too long to ever again submit to it; he had hoped for too long to ever relinquish her.

Martha, of course, had entirely abandoned even her favorite dessert to listen, utterly enthralled from beginning to end, and had declared it the most romantic story she had ever heard. _"Well deserving of celebration, wouldn't you agree, Robert?"_ Even Robert had eventually enjoyed the tale; his eyes were suspiciously watery and he could only nod his assent. Since that night, life at Downton had improved dramatically for the Bransons. Even the Dowager Countess made a point of addressing him as _Tom_, dinnertime conversations were constructed more carefully to avoid arguments, everyone at least attempted to be considerate—it wasn't perfect, but it was pretty good. Martha had topped them all: on her last night in the Crawley residence, she had proposed an extravagant anniversary gift in the form of a trip to New York. They had demurred, asked for some time to consider, but of course he would have bowed to any decision Sybil might have made. _"It's simply too perfect!"_ she had gushed later that night, lying flat on her stomach in their bed and half on top of him. _"A chance to get out, to escape this place—oh, Tom, let's go!"_

"'_This place'?" he repeated, smirking. "A fine way to refer to our childhood home."_

_She smacked his shoulder. "I believe I made my opinion of this house evident on the night I told you that you are my ticket, away from this house, this life…"_

"_I remember." he said with a smile. "Alright, then; if you want to get out of here, let's pack." _

_She flung her arms around him in delighted excitement, and…well, there was very little conversation for the rest of the night. _

They had indeed packed that morning and boarded the Baltic with Martha that afternoon, leaping happily aboard a welcome respite from the confines of a life of expectation and criticism that they had reluctantly endured since his banishment from Ireland the previous June. From the five nights of carefree dancing and dining in second class at sea to the luxury of Martha's opulent Fifth Avenue apartment, from the shopping expeditions to the restaurants, the theatres and museums and speakers and exhibits, the ice-skating and snowball fights, the sleigh rides and swimming pools and staircases to monuments, every delight that New York of 1921 had to offer, he and Sybil had the freedom to be together, touch each other, kiss and caress and embrace each other as they never had before. Sybil especially loved it; having escaped from the restraints of life at Downton, she flung herself headfirst into the enjoyment of New York life—and he had the scars to prove it. Marks from her fingernails stained the skin of his back and shoulders, and he certainly wasn't complaining. As Martha frequently noted, it was indeed Sybil who held the control in their marriage—he conceded to her every wish, anxious to make their second wedding anniversary as thrilling as possible. She had launched their old game of christening every room of their residence with wild abandon and poor secrecy—Martha teased them mercilesslyabout the crack in a certain window seat as frequently as possible.

He shifted his weight and winced as a certain muscle in his thigh throbbed in protest—another souvenir of their antics. Sybil seemed determined to outdo herself every night, though he doubted it was possible to improve on the truly naughty events of their actual anniversary night, back in September. Tonight's plans seemed to have been concocted with Martha's influence: it was one gigantic game of hide-and-seek, with Sybil and a special present of some sort waiting somewhere in Central Park, somewhere amidst this whirl of life and excitement. Long experience with chasing Sybil bore an important lesson, however: namely, he could get as close as possible, but it was up to her to ultimately choose whether to come to him. She was not the type to be swept off her feet, unless she jumped into his arms and demanded to be swept. So he waited.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait very long. Staring into the depths of the swirl of scarlet, red, burgundy, pink, rose, cream, ivory, white, his eye was suddenly snagged by a swirl of rich royal purple. He turned his head—and the breath fled his lungs.

1921 suited Sybil _superbly._ She stood but a few feet away, one bare arm planted on a cocked hip, the other holding a glass, eyes fixed on the dancing floor. The dress was made of silk, and it clung to every subtle ripple of her delectable curls. A delicate chain of embroidered violet blossoms traced the fabric and inch below the neckline, down the flat plane of her stomach, and then from her hips down to the hem. Her neck was bare, the smooth white skin flowing uninterrupted over her breastbone and into the hint of cleavage above the low neckline, decorated with only a slender strand of white pearl beads. Her shapely legs were bared from the knee down; she wore delicate white silk stockings and pretty white heels studded with more pearls. White silk gloves encased her arms up to above her elbows. Her hair had been trimmed and curled, until it bared her whole neck and clung to her head just below her ears. A circlet of pearls graced her brows and pearl drops hung from her ears. His entire body tightened as he stared—_holy Christ above!_

Eyes still fixed on the dancer's, she raised her glass to her lips, and he swallowed hard as her deep red lips closed around the crystal rim. Beneath darkly painted eyelashes, her deep blue gaze sauntered sideways and met his. She smiled, a deliberately slow curving of her lips, and lowered the glass to her side once more, tipping her head back to guide his gaze down her throat again. Then she turned and strolled away, hips swaying tantalizingly. He shrugged off the railing and followed, eyes lower than strictly appropriate on her retreating figure. They were being blatantly obvious, to a point that they'd never be able to be at Downton, but that was another benefit of the American 20s: _nobody cared._ Everyone was too enthralled with the joy of their own life to interfere with others'.

They traipsed through the snow away from the gaiety and laughter through the darkness. At times, he could only catch glimpses of starlight shining on her hair, or hear the crunch of her heels breaking through the crust of snow, but he followed her without speaking until he glimpsed the sheen of the full moon on the frozen lake. She ducked beneath the trailing branches of a weeping willow and led him into a haven of shadows pierced by silvery light.

"Took you long enough to arrive." she remarked, leaning against the bark of the tree and raising the glass to her lips once more. "Has no-one ever told you that a woman's toilette is meant to take longer than a man's?"

"Blame your grandmother." He pushed his hands into his pockets. "I wasn't allowed to leave the house until every part of me was slicked back and buttoned down to her satisfaction."

"Hmm…" she murmured, lolling her head to one side and directly into a shaft of moonlight. The glow turned her pearls to ice drops and her eyes to eternal pools of blue flame. "Not _every_ part, I hope, or there won't be much satisfaction for anyone tonight."

He choked on his own breath and deep in his pockets, his hands balled into fists. _Christ_, she was ravenous tonight! Staring at her profile in the moonlight, he saw the gleam of her eyes as she looked him up and down, slowly, deliberately. He saw the arm wrapped around her waist tighten into a fist around a handful of silky fabric. His own body was starting to become extremely dissatisfied with the state of their clothed bodies, but he recognized the restraint in the corners of Sybil's mouth: she was playing their oldest of games, poking and prodding each other, each trying to make the other snap first.

"You don't seem to have lacked for entertainment while waiting for me." he said, fingernails digging into his palms. "Enjoy yourself?"

"I did, thanks." She studied the glass and its remaining contents. "I most definitely prefer whiskey to cocktails—"

"What a surprise."

"—and I've learned a new skill." Pursing her lips, she let out a low, coaxing whistle, and her mouth was so inviting with its scarlet shade that he almost accosted her there and then.

"How very…unladylike of you." he somehow managed to choke.

"And so useful." She whistled again. "Yet another way to call you—and you always come when I call, don't you?" She swirled the contents of her glass, grinning. "C'mon, boy!" She whistled again.

He arched one eyebrow and was rewarded by the sound of a giggle escaping her lips. She clapped a hand to her mouth, fighting for control. Her eyes danced.

"I beg to differ; I think it's rather the other way around."

"Oh, do you?" One eyebrow arched upwards and the corner of her mouth tilted downwards.

"Aye." Very deliberately, he lifted one foot and took a step forwards. "You see…" Another step. "…I have found…" Yet another. "…that when you want _something_…" Another. "…_particularly _badly…you ask for it—nay, I would say you even _beg_ for it." He was against the tree himself now, leaning on one shoulder, looming over her. "And you come, most delightfully, when _I _call." His voice was but a rough whisper against her ear. A shudder ran through her form, and her back arched instinctively. "I..._and I alone_."

She sucked in a breath, a quick, harsh sound. He was reaching for her when she rolled back, still with her back to the tree, edging away from his grasp.

"Have you forgotten my grandmama's surprise?" she asked. His ego inflated still further at the breathless tone of her voice.

"Fuck the surprise." He reached again, and she danced backwards, eliciting a frustrated growl. "Sybil—"

Her gasp silenced him. "Tom! LOOK!"

Edging around the tree, he caught sight of the object nestled deeper in the shadows beneath the tree's branches. Icy-cold shock actually successfully dampened his raging hard-on for an instant.

The royal blue paint still shone, as though he had only scrubbed its antiquated frame yesterday. The brass trimmings on the wheels and hubcaps radiated their own notes into the dusk. Even the leather gleamed. A lump caught in his throat, and for a moment he was incapable of speech. Sybil's hands had flown to her mouth, and something was sparkling at the corner of her eye.

"Oh, Tom!" Dashing forwards, she caught up the note tucked beneath the rim of the windshield and held it up to a sparse splash of light. "Listen— 'Robert was loathe to part with this, but you two needed your own car. Have fun! M.' Oh my Lord, Tom…"

The steering wheel was cold beneath his bare hand. Leaning his weight on it, staring at the woman hovering by the passenger door, he fought back a tidal wave of memories. _Will you have your own way, do you think? With the frock?_

_I'm a Socialist, not a revolutionary. And I won't always be a chauffeur…_

_Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders…_

_I know I shouldn't say these things, but I can't keep it in any longer…bet on me…_

_You're too scared to admit it, but you're in love with me…_

_That's the first time you've ever spoken about us…_

_Does this mean you've made your decision? At last?_

_Yes. My answer is that I'm ready to travel—and you're my ticket…_

"Tom."

He started at the feeling of her hand on his cheek. Her eyes were damp with happy tears as she gazed up at him. Softly, she wrapped her arms around his waist and dropped her head to his chest. His own arms wound around her and they stood, swaying softly to the echoes of a tune dancing on the breeze. They were quiet until from beyond their leafy walls, the band flung itself headfirst into a new tune, flinging notes left, right, and center to pull the listeners closer. Lifting his head from the hollows of her cheekbones, Tom dropped one eyelid in a wink before whirling her into the wild dance, feet flying, snow scattering in all directions, shattering the pensive mood with a roar of laughter as Sybil's feet tangled over themselves and almost dropped her—only Tom's grip kept her relatively upright.

"I will _never_ understand how you can pick up these newfangled moves so quickly." she panted, digging her fingernails into his shoulders. "I'm half afraid we'll bump into something—" Sheepishly, she glanced around the shadows of their haven.

Pulling his eyebrows together, lips puckered ridiculously, he fixed her with a mock-offended look more suitable to a film. "Would _I_ bump you into something on a dance floor, _at any time_, Mrs. Branson?"

"Yes!" she retorted, giggling as his eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Oh, don't look at me like that—I'm sure you remember our wedding night as well as I."

"Hmmm…" he hummed deep in his chest, winding his arms tighter around her waist and pulling her close against him. "…which part, exactly?"

She swatted him on the shoulder, flushing hot red. "The _dancing_, you filthy-minded prat. We bumped into everyone, don't you remember?"

"What a question." he murmured. The mischief in his eyes was softening from a spark to a warm, deep glow, the corners of his lips melting into a smile that warmed the very marrow of her bones. He was remembering—her own blood grew hot and her cheeks flushed as the images waltzed through her mind's eye to the beat of time.

"I remember…you, in white." he whispered at last, one hand rising from her waist to cup her cheek, tilting her eyes back to his. Their feet slowed as the beat of the band faded into the thrum of a shared heartbeat. "I remember the band playing without end and everyone was laughing and chattering…I remember Kieran spilling whiskey on your sister, and Mam scolding us for not eating a thing, we were too busy staring at each other, and I remember how the lights grew brighter as the night wore on…but mostly, I remember the _freedom_—freedom to touch you, look at you, hold you, kiss you, whenever I pleased…"

"…to say 'damn your eyes' and not care what people thought…to listen to people laugh at us and tease us and accept the fact that we are together, we will _always _be together, and if they don't like it, they can jolly well bugger off." she finished, rather fiercely.

The corner of his mouth leapt upwards. "I love you."

"I love you too." She stretched upwards onto her toes to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him close. "So very much."

His mouth tasted of the Bourbon and lipstick. When their tongues met and tangled, blood crashed through her skin to her cheeks. The ragtime beat of the Charleston tumbled over her pulse and spilled into the corners of their warm little world.

"This feels rather clandestine." he mumbled against her skin, smiling. "As though we're still hiding from the world."

"Not hiding." she corrected him, smiling up at the tree overhead. "Just…taking a break. But listen to that, Tom—listen to the world spin on."

For a moment, their breaths hushed into the cold night air, linking arms with the whirling tune and the cheering crowds. "See?" she whispered. "The world goes on, it still reaches us, and we're still a part of it." Through the cracks overhead, light played across her skin. "This new world, Tom, it doesn't care for my accent or your clothes. It cares only for the dance, the drink, the fun—we can keep up with it, with you to show me the steps. Don't you see? This world is ours, my darling, as long as we're together."

"You never fear the future?" He was stroking the curve of her cheekbone with one rough thumb. "Never? You know as well as I that all we've endured is only the start—we'll face more of the same for the rest of our lives together."

"_Together_." she repeated, relishing the word. "No, I'm not afraid, Tom. I'm betting on you…and that is why I treasure _this_ so much."

Slipping from his arms, she laid one gloved hand on the bonnet of the car, Robert's 1910 Renault, the place where their friendship, their love, had first blossomed. "This is us, Tom. This is our past—strong, fast, beautiful, and still so powerful, after all these years. _This_ is what will take us forward into the future—so no, I am not afraid. You took me to a whole different world, one I'm never going to leave, you taught me what freedom is, what _love_ is. Oh darling, don't you see?" Her eyes pled with him. "This is our past, and it's _here_, here in our present, and it will carry us into the future, it will guard us from all the trials we have yet to face. So come here, and let me show you how I love you."

Without waiting for a response, she yanked open the back door, turned back to face him, and, eyes locked on his, hoisted herself backwards into the car. The skirt of her dress rode upwards, exposing lacy white garters bound around her thighs just above her knees, as she shifted onto the seat. She pulled the coronet from her hair and tossed it into the front seat, then bent to undo her shoe straps. Before her fingers could close around the buckles, his reached them and yanked the delicate shoes from her feet. His body was spurred into action by a mixture of love and arousal strong enough to override the shock numbing his brain from her passionate words, and he crushed his lips to her, pulling a moan from her lips. Her hands were in his hair instantly, pulling the strands loose from the pomade, pulling him closer and closer. Tongues stroking, he slid both hands up her legs and under her dress, pulling away for one agonizing second to pull the silk over her head. She was gasping for breath, hair deliciously rumpled, necklace tangled around her throat, clad in a delightfully scanty brassiere and knickers—shorter knickers, another delightful aspect of the new fashions.

"You're still dressed." she deduced, rather brilliantly. "Strip. Now." Her own hands darted to his jacket and pulled it down and off his arms while her raspberry-hued lips launched a war on his jawbone.

"Syb—" He couldn't concentrate on speaking when her tongue did _that_—ooh, or _that._ "Syb, listen to me—"

"Too—many—clothes." she mumbled, ripping at the buttons of his shirt. Where had his tie gone? "Far—too—many."

"Syb." Pulling free—God, how he hated to do that!—he cradled her face in his palms, tilting her gaze up to his. "Syb, I think you've stolen all my words…there's nothing left for me to say except _I love you_, and God, I do love you, my darling, so very, very much—"

"Consider it a balance." she whispered. One thumb slipped inside his half-opened shirt to caress the thud of his heart. "You stole my breath with so many wonderful words over the years; it's about time I caught up."

He kissed her again, pulling another famished moan from her throat. "Ooooh, God, _Tom…_"

"You were—" His lips graduated to her throat. "—saying something—" His teeth trapped her earlobe and she whined. "—about too many clothes?"

Groaning, she resumed her attack on his shirt and had it fully unbuttoned and off him in seconds, then unleashed her warm, wet mouth on him as he pulled his undershirt over his head. He peeled away the straps of her brassiere with ease born of practice, then shuddered to a halt as her own fingers ducked under the waistband of his trousers and wrapped around him.

"_God."_ he gasped, bracing himself with one arm on the seat above her. "Syb—"

She grinned, tongue darting out to lick the corner of her mouth. "Aren't we a salacious pair, stripping each other naked in the back of my father's car?"

"Our car, now." he reminded her, teeth snapping together as she slowly ran her fist down his shaft, fingers tight on his skin. "Ughhhh…"

"Must be all the memories of repression." she mused, licking his ear and nestling her chin on his shoulder. "When you were in the front seat, all buttoned up and proper…and I was in the back, prim and ladylike…and wet through with looking at the back of your neck."

"_Fuck!"_ he swore, forcing his head up and staring at her, stunned. "You were not!"

She blushed bright red, but met his eyes. "Oh yes I was. I didn't know what it meant at the time, just that it happened whenever I thought of you…at night…in my bed…all alone, and too hot and bothered to wear _anything—_oh!"

Ripping himself away, he yanked his trousers and underpants down himself, tore her knickers down her legs, and flipped her onto her back in a series of quick movements. "And did you think of me very often?" he asked, placing one large hand over her heart and dragging it down her body in a slow, smooth, hot path.

"Uh-huh." She squirmed as his fingers wandered towards her bellybutton. "More frequently as the years went on and I realized just how much I loved you."

"Mmm…" He slid his other arm beneath her head, cradling it softly. "Did you ever…put your anatomical knowledge to…good use, shall we say?"

"You mean, did I ever do—ooooohhhhhhhhhh…" His fingers had dipped through the tangle of curls at the apex of her thighs and were stroking her slit.

"Christ, you're soaking." he mumbled, dropping his head to her breast and biting almost absent-mindedly at one erect nipple. She spasmed, back arching, one hand flying up above her head; he heard it squeak against the condensation-fogged window.

"Don't say I didn't—_Tom—_warn you!" she panted, wriggling as his middle finger dipped ever so slightly inside her. "Don't—ooooohhhh—don't tease, Tom, I—I—oh, _God—_I need you. Inside me…oh, _please…_"

"As milady wishes." he whispered. His hand moved to separate her thighs further. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer. Both hissed as he entered her; she tugged at his hair, pulling his gaze up to hers.

"I love you." she gasped. "You love me."

"I love you…and you love me."

"And we cannot fear the future—" Her entire body was squeezed tight, fighting to hold herself still. "—we're too strong to ever fall."

"Ever." he whispered, reaching up to claim her lips as their arms wound around bodies slick with sweat, pulling each other into a braver tomorrow.


End file.
